


Citron

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5017096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian asks to stay the night. Bull always turns him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Citron

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme, seen [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15060.html?thread=59180244#t59180244).
> 
> Story includes very brief sexual content and some violence.

            _“It’s not a good idea.”_

The first time it’s not bad. Dorian sort of shrugs and rolls over, finds his clothes on the floor, the candlelight shining on the curve of his perfect ass. He dresses as a man who’s done this a hundred times before.

           What is Bull supposed to say?  _It’s not like that?_  Well, isn’t it? Ah, crap. The fact that he had to ask himself at all is not a good sign. Dorian pulls his collar up to conceal the red-and-purple love bites that cover his neck, and he leaves Bull with one last sultry, satisfied smile before he’s out the door.

           Bull lies there in the half-dark, that scent Dorian wears still lingering in the air. That could’ve gone worse. And there’s no one else in his bed anymore, which is the most important part.

           He shuts his eyes and tries to ignore the intimate trickle of guilt, like the seep of blood under armor.

——

           The second time is worse.

           Dorian’s lying on Bull’s chest then. No rope marks this time, no red handprints on his ass. It was weird—Bull was in a good mood, but not really a sex mood, and then Dorian walked into the Herald’s Rest and they ended up falling into bed but not because Bull wanted  _sex_ , in particular, he mostly just wanted Dorian and that’s what they usually do. Except this time there was no rope or begging or meting out of punishment.

           Until now, anyway, because it sort of feels like punishment when he tells Dorian, “It’s not a good idea.”

           There’s a moment where Dorian stays still and silent, and Bull can almost see the frantic scrambling in his head,  _say something, say something, don’t make this any more awkward than it already is—_ and then, “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

           Dorian rises, turning his face from Bull and keeping it that way. As he gathers his clothes Bull tries to figure out the best way to fix this. Which is pretty obvious, yeah, but it’s  _hard,_  he doesn’t do this shit, but he owes it to the guy he keeps fucking and then kicking out of bed. “Dorian—“

           “Hm?” He wriggles into his underclothes.

           Come on. Say it. “I care about you.”

           “Bull, it’s fine. I understand.” The dark brocade shirt. Dorian does up the buttons with amazing speed and dexterity—

           “No—“ Shit. “I mean it. I do.”

           “I told you, it’s fine. You don’t owe me any explanations.” His trousers, high-waisted, Tevinter samite lined finely in silver. He laces them up and combs back his hair with his fingers. “You don’t owe me anything.”

           Fuck. Tell him? Can’t. “Dorian—“

           “Bull.” An amused smile. “Really, it’s all right.”

           Then he’s gone again. Gone. Fuck.  _Fuck._

——

           “Hah—Bull— _nnh_ , I’m—I’m going to—“

           He takes Dorian to the root again, lips locking around the base of his shaft. A final, soft cry, and Dorian bucks his hips up, thrusting into Bull’s face. Bull hugs his thighs close, wraps his tongue around Dorian’s pulsing cock, swallows the cum that pumps into his mouth. Has to restrain the sudden urge to laugh for joy.

           Eventually Dorian falls still, and Bull lets him go, his legs splaying boneless on the bed.  _“Fasta vass,”_  he mutters. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to move ever again.”

           “Come on.” Bull grins. “You’ve taken more than that from me before.”

           A defeated laugh. “Not often. Oh, Maker.”

           Bull crawls up onto the bed and flops down. He’s exhausted too—stayed hard after the first orgasm, which only happens when he’s  _really_  turned on, but Dorian looked like he was reaching his limit so Bull untied him to give him back a little bit of control. They were going at it pretty rough for a while, and it was good,  _good—_ then somehow Dorian ended up on his lap, the two of them face-to-face, Dorian sucking his neck, biting his shoulder. And Bull held him close and breathed in his scent—sandalwood, jasmine, that thick-skinned fruit they grow on Seheron.

           That’s when he came the second time and then pulled out and finished Dorian off with his mouth.

           Dorian drags himself onto Bull’s chest. “We should do that more often.”

           Bull laughs at that. “We do this pretty damn often.”

           “I mean…mm. Never mind.”

           Oh. The last part. “No, you’re right,” Bull murmurs. “We should.”

           Dorian heaves a sigh. “Listen, I know you’re about to kick me out again—“

           “Dorian—“

           “—but just give me a few minutes to recover, would you? I’m feeling rather spent. In a good way, of course.”

           “Yeah. I’m kinda wrung out myself.” Bull starts rubbing Dorian’s back and is rewarded with a shiver and a moan.  _Fuck,_  that’s nice, how Dorian squirms against him, making those little satisfied sounds, the way his sweaty skin glows in the late afternoon light that streams through the window…

           He can’t stay. Bull wants him to stay, but he can’t. Well…he can, maybe, only for a little while. Just like this.

           Dorian leans up and kisses Bull, a soft, tender thing, just once before he settles back down again. Bull strokes his hair, the back of his neck. How did it end up like this? How did he end up  _wanting_  this so badly?

           He shuts his eyes to feel Dorian’s skin on his, to savor the sensation before they have to break apart one more time.

——

           They’re in the groves.

           The Vints are in the groves. They hide there a lot. The trees crowd in on each other for acres and acres, squat and leafy, branches bowed with thick-skinned orange fruits as big as Bull’s fist. Vints, tiny Vints, slippery fucking Vints, they vanish in the groves, they can slither through the trees without disturbing a single leaf, which is beyond the skill of most Qunari, at least the ones who aren’t Ben-Hassrath. Bull knows a few things about staying unnoticed, but there’s only so much even he can do.

           Seems that wasn’t enough, because he’s on his back and one of his eyes isn’t working.

           What happened? Someone hit him? He doesn’t hurt anywhere. He lifts his head. Orange, the air thick with orange, the eruptions of fruits on the branches, the sweet, acid smell of them. Something on top of him. Fallen branch?

           No. A Vint.

           This guy’s just waking up too. Won’t be awake for much longer.

           Bull shoves him off, rolls over.

           The guy’s saying something. Hard to hear. Bull shakes his head. What happened to him? Explosion? No ringing in his ears. No smell of smoke. Bull knows that smell, too. He’s burned the groves, when there’s no information to be gathered, when all they need is to flush out the Vints. He’s burned plenty.

           The guy’s reaching up. Bull grabs his wrist and pins it down, straddles his waist, and wraps a hand around his neck.

           Terror. There. Bull knows that, at least, has seen it a hundred times—more than that, mostly as they watch his axe falling to split them open from throat to tail. Not usually this intimate. Choking leaves him exposed. But he doesn’t have a weapon, and there’s no one else here to interrupt, anyway. Probably. He hears like he’s underwater. Footsteps will be lost. Fine. He’ll make it quick then.

           The guy’s fingers dig under Bull’s palm, opening up a sliver of space in front of his windpipe. Bull frowns. Slippery fucking Vints. That shouldn’t have been able to happen. His strength isn’t where it normally is. This guy’s neck should be a crushed hunk of tissue by now. “Your friends left you behind,” Bull says—slurs, his lips and tongue clumsy. “Just give up. This’ll be over quicker.”

           The Vint’s saying something again, or trying. Bad move. He’s wasting breath. Good move, then. But he has to stop talking, his lips parting as he tries desperately to suck in air. Not happening. Bull leans down, shifting his body weight onto his palm. The Vint’s fingertips crush against his own throat. Tears gather and slip from the corners of his eyes, streaking black as the kohl begins to run—

            _“Fasta vass.” An annoyed sigh. “I can’t believe I did it_ again. _You’d think one of these days I’d remember I was wearing this before I rubbed my eyes.” He inspects his knuckles, now smudged with black._

_Bull grins. “I kinda like it this way. When it gets all smeared you look like you’ve just had a really good fuck.”_

_One eyebrow lifts in skepticism, and something a little more lascivious. “But I haven’t.”_

_“Then maybe we should fix that.” Bull leans forward, the fevered want stoking in his chest as he kisses Dorian—Dorian—_

Dorian—who’s currently choking to death on the bed by Bull’s own hand, his body starting to go limp.

           No.

           Bull heaves himself off of Dorian, off the bed, scrambles back until he hits the bureau in the corner. It shakes at the impact, and his tub of horn polish falls down, bouncing off his leg before it rolls across the floor and comes to a gentle stop against the wall.

           No.

           Dorian twists over, fingers balling in the sheets, his body wracked with great violent coughs. Bull has the urge to go to him, to hold him—yeah, right, touch him more, that’s a _great_  idea right now. Shit. How could he have been so careless, to let this happen? How could he have done this to the man he—

           “Are you—“ Dorian coughs again, wipes his mouth. “Are you all right?”

           Bull stares for a second, speechless. “Am I—Dorian, I just tried to kill you!”

           “That’s.” A cough. “Why I’m asking.”

           “Yes, Dorian, I’m fine,” Bull snaps. Shit. Shouldn’t be angry. “No—sorry. Sorry. Are you—“  _Are you okay?_  That one’s pretty damn obvious.

           Dorian’s fingers tremble as he brushes his throat. No mistaking those for love bites. The marks there are an angry purple-black, in the shape of fingers wrapped around Dorian’s fragile neck. Not something that can be healed away. Damage heals, but bruises stick around, while the dead blood gets eaten and goes from to green to brown to yellow. He’ll be wearing those for a while.

           “Was it a dream?” Dorian rasps.

           Bull doesn’t want to talk about it, at all. But he owes Dorian a lot, including this. “Kind of,” he mutters. “More like a memory. From Seheron. I wake up with them sometimes. Think I’m still there.”

           “Sometimes?”

           He shrugs. “Few times a year, if that. It’s gotten better, but…it’s not gone.”

           Dorian nods, wipes tears from his eyes. The kohl smears on his copper skin. They’re quiet for a minute while Dorian gets his breath back.  _I’m sorry,_  Bull wants to say, woefully fucking inadequate, but no matter how much he tries he can’t think of anything else. So he says it. “I’m sorry.” The words fall out into the dead space, desiccated. They hold a brief second before crumbling into dust. Bull inhales and nearly chokes on it.

           Dorian sits propped up on one hand, the other still whispering at his throat. He doesn’t meet Bull’s eye. The orange light of sunset soaks into his skin— _beautiful,_  Bull thinks, and  _fuck, stop, now’s not the fucking time._  Finally Dorian speaks. “Is it—is this why you—“

            _Don’t ask me,_  Bull prays.  _Don’t ask me._

           “Is this why you never let me stay?”

           Bull rests his head in one hand. “Yeah.”

           “You never—“ He stops, grimacing as his throat tightens. But he swallows the cough and keeps going. “You never told me. You didn’t want to tell me.”

           “No.”

           “Wh—“ He breaks off, then shakes his head, mutters “Never mind.”

           Why. He wants to know why. Bull exhales slowly. This has to be said. He can’t keep it to himself, not anymore. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to remember Seheron anymore. The fewer people know about it—what I did there, or the dreams—the less space it takes up. It gets smaller, and I can ignore it better. I don’t wake up as often looking for Vints to kill, or homes to destroy, or trees to burn.” He sighs. “And you and I—spend a lot of time together. So if you knew—that’s big. What I did in Seheron, that’s in someone else now, someone I…” He hesitates. “I’m close to. And I’d  _know_  you knew, and…” How to explain it further? He’s done a shit job so far. He makes a noise of frustration, knocks his head back against the bureau. “But I should’ve told you, and I’m an asshole for not doing it. And for letting you find out like this. Like fucking this.”

           Another moment of silence. Then Dorian asks, “Can I help?”

           Bull flashes a mirthless grin. “I just tried to kill you. You really shouldn’t want to help me right now.”

           “Well, I do.” Dorian gazes at him with a sort of hopeless self-amusement, his eyes smeared black. “I care about you quite a lot, you know.”

           "Yeah, I know. I know, Dorian. Which is the first reason why I should've told you about this before.”

           "It's all right, I—“

           "Not really. It's not all right. I almost choked you to death.”

           “—I understand. I just want to help."

           “You don’t know what I did on Seheron. I killed a  _lot_  of Vints."

           "Bull—are you trying to get me to be angry at you? Because it's not going to work."

           Bull lets out a brittle laugh. “If you could see what your neck looks like right now, you’d be pissed.”

           Dorian sighs, frustrated. “Listen, maybe I’ll be angry later. I don’t know. But right now I’m not.”

           Bull grunts and doesn’t move.

           Neither of them say anything for a minute. How is this supposed to go? Bull wants Dorian to leave, but also doesn’t want him to leave and hasn’t for a while. Fuck. Fuck. Things were good, they were really good, and then he had to go and blow it all to shit. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Wasn’t meant to do this anyway.

           Dorian comes over, cautious, and crouches in front of Bull. The whites of his eyes are spotted with little bursts of blood. That’s from the choking. “Do you want me to go?”

           “I want you to—“ Bull stops, exhales.  _I want you to not have a bruise on your throat in the shape of my hand._  “What do  _you_  want?”

           “Mostly for you to stop looking as if you’ve just murdered a poor defenseless nugling,” Dorian replies. “I’m not dead, for one. And I’m hardly defenseless.”

           Bull shrugs with one shoulder, unmoved. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Dorian. I can still feel the pulse in your neck jumping under my fingers.”

           Dorian hesitates, then reaches out.

           His palm is calloused against Bull’s cheek; mages’ staves aren’t as light and flimsy as they look. “As I said, I’m not dead,” he murmurs. “We still have a choice. We don’t have to throw all this away.”

           The smeared kohl doesn’t make him look so much like he’s just had a good fuck now—more a good cry, which isn’t true either. Just how his eyes watered and ran when Bull was choking him. Bull takes a deep breath to compose himself, picks up the faint fragrance, the one Dorian always wears, sandalwood, jasmine, those thick-skinned fruits they grow on—

           —Seheron.

           “That scent you wear,” Bull says suddenly. “Something in it, that fruit—“

           “Hm?” Dorian blinks. “Oh, yes. There’s a little citron mixed in there.”

           “Do me a favor and stop wearing it.”

           Dorian lifts an eyebrow, waiting for clarity.

           “They grew citron on Seheron. Trees everywhere, mostly scattered around, but there were some big groves the Vints used to hide in. I would—“  _I would go in, capture them, and torture them for information, some as young as Krem or younger—_

           “You think—you think that’s what triggered this dream?”

           “Probably.” He sighs. “Sorry. I know you like that scent—“

           “Oh, not to worry, I have plenty. That seemed to be your favorite, is all.”

           That’s true. It’s sweet and sharp, and mixed with the other elements it wasn’t enough to drag out any bad memories. Except when he’s asleep.

           Dorian offers a smile. “Shall we go back to my quarters so you can help me wash it off?”

            “Dorian…”

           “Maker, Bull, I’m not saying we  _do_  anything. I’m just asking you to come with me. You don’t—have to, of course.”

           Bull gazes at him for a moment, at the thick band that rings his neck in purple and black.

            _I don’t want you to leave._

           “Yeah.” He shifts, rises to his feet. “Let’s go.”

——

           The long shadow of Skyhold’s western wall casts a veil of darkness over half the courtyard.

           Bull follows Dorian, head bowed. Doesn’t know why. Not like it’s a secret they’re fucking. And Dorian’s collar, buttoned all the way, covers the bruises. Unless it doesn’t, and someone sees, and thinks Bull’s abusing him. An allegation he’s already had to correct a few times, but he’s not always believed, because why would an abuser tell the truth about this shit, and he’s a Qunari on top of it, and everyone knows their penchant for  _re-education—_

            _I didn’t mean to do it,_  Bull tells himself.  _It was a mistake letting him fall asleep there. I didn’t want to hurt him._

           Dorian takes them to one of the side doors. Bull glides through the corridors unthinking. He passes a few people who grin at him, obviously expecting his normal good humor. They don’t get it. Down a flight of stairs. Dorian chose quarters built into the mountain itself—quiet, tucked away, and with their own private bath. It’s cooler down here, within the rock.

           Bull doesn’t come here often—the last time they fucked here, Dorian had to request a new bedframe, since the old one was in five pieces—but it’s as ornate as he remembers it, the solemn stone walls covered with muted silk hangings trimmed in gold. The washroom is behind a velvet curtain, which catches on Bull’s horns as he steps inside. Dorian motions, and the cover twists off the brass pipe sticking out of the wall, water cascading into the wooden tub beneath. Another motion and fire wreathes the tub—without setting it ablaze. Magic. Right.

           Dorian undresses, his clothes piling around his feet. No more rope indents on his skin, those must have faded a while ago, but the collar of bruises glowers dark as ever. He shivers a little in the underground air. Bull wants to touch him, to hold him. But no. Not now. Dorian wraps his arms around himself. The room begins to warm, the fire flickering softly. There’s a long bench by one wall, lined with glass bottles, squat and thick or slender and elegant, and Dorian picks one and pours some into the water. The  light scent of some flower fills the room…what is it? August lilacs. Common in Nevarra.

           Then he steps into the tub and sinks down.

           The water laps at the lower border of the bruises. Dorian sits back with a sigh and shuts his eyes. “Now that is  _divine._  Here, you can sit if you like.”

           The fire disappears. Bull comes over and sits.

           Dorian slips under for a moment and comes up again, gesturing to the bench. His mustache droops wetly. “That bottle on the end there.”

           Bull uncorks it. A silky, mint-green substance pours out on his palm. Dorian must owe Josie a hundred favors for getting him all this crap. Bull kneels again by the tub and works it into Dorian’s hair.

           Dorian moans and slumps back. “Mm. That’s nice.”

           Bull finds himself smiling. Huh. Well, it’s good to know that not everything has gone to complete shit. Dorian still likes Bull’s fingers running through his hair.

           When Bull’s done Dorian slips under again, water sloshing over the lip of the tub and onto the stone floor. Then he rises. “One of the bars in the back, if you please.”

           There are a few bars of soap piled behind the bottles. The one closest at hand is speckled with little orange bits of citron rind. Bull picks a different one, in light pink, with curls of petal in deeper magenta. He dips it in the water and rubs it between his hands. It smells of lilacs, too—another species, the Marquise’s Blush. Orlesian. Dorian stands, candlelight shining gold in the droplets of water that bead on his copper skin.

           Bull touches him.

           Gently. Carefully. His hands, as always, too large in comparison to Dorian’s body, large enough to cup a shoulderblade in each palm. Bull rubs the soap into Dorian’s smooth skin, feels the tightness in his muscles. “You’re tense,” he murmurs absently.

           “I’ve spent the last month sleeping on the ground.” A resigned sigh. “Hardly the life of comfort I’m accustomed to.”

            _I could help work that out of you,_  Bull thinks.

           “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me with it after this?”

           Bull’s quiet for a minute. Massages hurt. They have to, but they hurt. He thinks of his hands squeezing, his fingers digging in—

           “Bull?”

           He realizes he’s stopped moving, and he shakes himself. “Yeah. Uh, maybe another time.”

           A small shrug. “As you wish.”

           Bull goes over Dorian’s back, his ass, the backs of his thighs. Places he’s touched a thousand times, but he’s grateful for the barrier now, the thin layer of soap and water between skin and skin. It ascribes the action meaning. This is a task he’s performing. This isn’t intimacy. He doesn’t have to think about intimacy.

           Then Dorian turns.

           The handprint in black, like a constant threat. It draws Bull’s eye and makes him distantly angry. Who would dare to do that to Dorian? But of course it was Bull himself. For a second he forgets it’ll fade, thinks the grasping bruise will stay, marking Dorian forever. Should it fade? Should what he did be erased so easily? Yes, it should, because it was Bull’s fuckup but Dorian’s the one who’ll be covering up that mark, dodging questions like  _he’s_ the one with something to hide—

           “Bull, Maker, you look like someone’s sucked out your soul and just left the shell. A very good-looking shell, granted.”

           Bull shifts. “Sorry.”

           “Would you come here for a moment?” Dorian grasps Bull’s horn and tugs lightly. So Bull leans down, and Dorian kisses him.

           It’s lingering but chaste. Affectionate. Bull’s thoughts split in two.  _I want this. I shouldn’t be doing this._  They break apart. Dorian strokes his face. “I’m still here. I’m still fine.”

           The black mark wells under his jaw like his throat’s been opened up and has begun to rot away. Bull returns to what he was doing. “Yeah.”

           When Dorian’s clean he drapes himself in an enormous cerulean towel and shuffles back out into the bedroom. Bull follows, ducking past the curtain. Dorian dries his hair and finger-combs it, the fine locks settling in messy waves on top of his head. Then he tucks the towel around his waist and turns. “This is probably a very bad time to tell you this.”

           Bull lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

           Dorian takes a deep breath. “I want to be with you.”

           Fuck. “Dorian, I just—“

           “—tried to kill me, yes, I’m aware.”

           “And I lied to you!”

           “Not exactly—“

           “Lying by omission counts,” Bull growls.

           “Yes, fine, fine. Nobody’s perfect.”

           Bull knows what’s coming and smiles despite himself.

           “Except for me, of course,” Dorian adds nonchalantly. “The point is, I like you. Very much. Even when we’ve both got all our clothes on. And I would like to be with you in a more, I don’t know, formal capacity. Or something. I’m not really sure how this works, to be honest.”

           Bull lets out a long, bone-deep sigh and sits on the bed, the frame creaking under him. “This isn’t going to just go away.”

           “I know.” Dorian sits beside him. “But I’m willing to talk about it if you are.”

           Bull grimaces. “You don’t seem to be taking this as seriously as you should.”

           “I—I understand it’s been weighing on you—“

           “No, Dorian, the fact that this is me! That I killed more Vints and rebels and Tal-Vashoth than I could count, for fucking years, and I was  _really_  good at it, and I still think about it all the damn time, and now when I fuck you I tie you up and slap you and flog you—“

            _“Bull!”_  Dorian stops him, alarmed. “That’s— _completely_ different! We talk about that, I  _ask_  you to do those things to me!”

           He stares at his knees. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

           “Bull. I trust you. I trust you not to hurt me.”

           “I just did.”

           “And hurt yourself just as much, I think. I know you, Bull, you’ll hack people apart with glee, but  _only_  if there isn’t another way. You are not by nature a violent man.” Dorian takes Bull’s hand. “Isn’t that why you left Seheron in the first place?”

           Sort of. The violence didn’t make sense to him anymore, if it ever had. But now he’s a bodyguard. He protects.  _That_  makes sense.  _You are not by nature a violent man._  Is that true? Can it be, with how eagerly he hurls himself into battle day after day? But Dorian believes it, and Dorian is smart as a whip, or smarter.

           So maybe Bull should trust him on this. On all of this.

           “Do you—want to be with me?”

           Now’s the time to say it. So he says it. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He lifts Dorian’s hand and kisses it. “Should’ve told you that before too. Just…not used to all this.”

           Dorian snorts. “Neither am I. But I’d—like to try it, I think.”

           Bull’s quiet for a moment. “Can we not fuck for a little while?”

           “No fucking? Andraste’s bosoms, whatever shall we do instead? Why…” He squeezes Bull’s fingers. “…I suppose we’ll just have to get dinner or something.”

           Bull wraps an arm around Dorian’s back and kisses his damp hair. “I like the sound of dinner."


End file.
